


Upbringing of a God

by yourrhinestoneeyes



Category: Metalocalypse
Genre: Abuse, Childhood, Gen, Neglect, back story, skwisgaar's back story
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-23
Updated: 2014-08-23
Packaged: 2018-02-14 10:41:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,946
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2188707
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yourrhinestoneeyes/pseuds/yourrhinestoneeyes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Skwisgaar's past isn't exactly all that mystical or mysterious, he just doesn't like remembering it. Though his mother loves to brag that neglecting her son is the reason he became the world's fastest guitarist.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Upbringing of a God

**Author's Note:**

> I like trying to come up with what each member of Dethklok's childhoods might have been like. The show gives basic ideas, sometimes very in depth looks into different characters backgrounds, but I like to piece together to get a better idea.

Skwisgaar knew from a very young age that his mom didn't really want him. There were days Servetta tried, tried the best that she could. He remembered when he was very young she was around a lot, she had to be around. The laws wouldn't allow a parent to leave a baby or toddler home alone like that with nobody there to watch it, feed it, and keep it from being hurt. When he was little he would often sit on the edge of his mother's bed and watch her apply thick amounts of makeup to her pale face. As a small child he thought his mother was a princess; she was a beautiful youthful woman. He didn't understand why he had no grandparents, aunts, uncles, or a father, but he did have his mother. It was too bad that only lasted until he was about nine years old. 

Through his upbringing his mother would allow her frustrations about being a young mother slip. If Skwisgaar broke a dish she would yell at him, tell him he was stupid and clumsy. When he tracked snow or dirt into the house he was as filthy as a mutt. The one time she found her eight year old son putting on her red lipstick she had taken it from him and told him he looked like a queer. Skwisgaar wondered what he did wrong to make his mom say the things she would, in the end he came to the conclusion that he wasn't behaving well enough. The first time that she left the house and didn't return for two days he worried she was gone for good.

He had woken up to an empty house; no note or message left behind. Her car wasn't in the driveway and two suitcases were missing from her closet. It wasn't until that moment that the young boy realized he had nobody to call; his mother didn't have friends, he only saw other children at school, and they had no other family members. Skwisgaar had spent several hours curled up under the blankets on his bed crying. He went through the list of every bad thing he had done that might have caused his mother to leave him all alone, he wondered what he would do, how he would get to school, and what he would even eat once food ran out. The only thing that brought him out from the safety of his bed was the growling of his stomach telling him he needed to eat soon. In the kitchen he could only find cereal, most other things they had required cooking which was something he knew nothing about. For the first day he stayed in the living room eating fist fulls of cereal and looking out the window every time he heard a sound he swore was the sound of his mother's car pulling up. It wasn't until nearly midnight that he fell asleep curled up on the couch with the TV playing some sitcom in the background to keep him at least a false sense of company and security.

The morning of the second day he woke up with a mild headache from a day of crying. He had run to his mom's room hoping she had returned while he had been sleeping, but her room was still as empty as it had been the morning before. He spent a second day eating any dry foods he could find, watching shows on TV where kids had a mom and a dad, even siblings. Skwisgaar wondered what having a brother or a sister would be like; he doubted his mother would ever want to have another child, if she had abandoned him then that meant she really didn't even want to have him. He liked to imagine one day he would get married and have children of his own, he would have a life like the people on the TV. 

The third day he was woken by the sound of the front door slamming shut and a woman's voice yelling. Skwisgaar sat up on the couch pushing his hair back away from his eyes. His mother stood with her hands on her hips glaring down at him. He felt an overwhelming amount of relief that his mother was home, even though she looked angry he couldn't help but grin at the sight of her.

“Mom your home, I thought you weren't coming back. Where did you go?”

“I went on vacation, I needed a break. Look at the house, it's a complete mess. You couldn't pick up after yourself?”

Skwisgaar furrowed his brows confused.

“Why didn't you take me with you?” He asked voice small, confused.

“What do you think I was taking a vacation from?” She asked annoyance in her voice.

Something in his chest hurt at her words and how she looked at him with some disgusted expression he couldn't yet place at such a young age.

As Skwisgaar got older his mother left more and more often; sometimes it would be for days, other times it was for weeks, and he never got a warning. Thankfully as he got older he taught himself how to cook and to clean, if he knew she wouldn't hit him for taking her car he would have taught himself how to drive as well. It wasn't like he was okay with being left alone; it hurt, it hurt in ways he would never be able to explain. The days he woke up to an empty house he remembered the first time and how she said she left to get away from him. He didn't know what he had done to make his mother hate him so much, most days when she was around he felt like she didn't love him or like him. He was there to be somebody to take her anger out on, he was there to cook for her, and to clean her house.

When she would have her dates he would help her pick out outfits, do her hair, and her makeup. He despised the task, when he had been younger he liked being able to brush his mother's hair and apply her makeup for her, but the older he got the fun task turned into a chore that made him feel demeaned.

Snide comments would come his way from time to time as he would run the brush through her long blonde hair. When he applied her makeup she would comment on how feminine he was.

“You're getting better at doing makeup Skwisgaar, if I weren't your mother I'd believe you were a lady.”

“I'm sure you'll make some man a very nice wife some day.”

He hated her comments, he hated the smirk she would give him. He hated helping her get ready for her dates, hated waiting up until late at night just for her to stumble through the front door with smeared lipstick, a hiked up red dress, and smelling like cheap alcohol. She would yell at him for making the house look like a mess, it wasn't clean enough for her taste. She would yell at him for just siting on the couch waiting for her instead of being out like a normal child. She would tell him his hair was too long, he looked too much like a lady. He would help her out of her dress and into more comfortable clothes. He would hold her hair out of her face while she vomited into the toilet. The following morning he would get up early, clean whatever messes she had made or the non existent ones that she claimed he had made, then he would make breakfast for the both of them. There was never a thank you for all that he did, if she did comment it was to say the floor wasn't clean enough, his bed wasn't made correctly, and the bacon didn't seem like it was cooked all the way. 

Skwisgaar remembered the first time his mom began bringing her 'dates' to the house. There wasn't a warning or an explanation. One day he came home from school to find some middle aged balding man sitting on the couch watching TV, his mother sitting next to him with her head leaning on his shoulder. The strange man had seemed less than pleased to find out his date had a son.

“Who is the kid?” He asked glaring at Skwisgaar then turning his attention to Servetta.

“Oh that's my son, don't worry about him he mostly stays to himself.” 

The boy stood there awkwardly unsure of how to even act in his own home. The man glared at him like he wanted to kick him back out the door he had just come through. Instead he grunted and threw his empty beer can at the boy.

“Get me another drink then”

Skwisgaar looked to his mother, she narrowed her eyes at him.

“Go on get him a drink”

He hung his head and went into the kitchen getting a can of beer for the strange man on his couch with his mother curled up against him. He was grateful when the man was gone by the next day, but his mother wasn't happy with how he had reacted. 

“You could have been nicer.” She commented when she entered the kitchen around noon.

“I was nice, who was he?”

“None of your business, you were not nice”

“Why didn't you tell him you have a son?” Skwisgaar asked, he kept his eyes on his plate.

He knew the answer to these sorts of questions, but he needed to ask them.

“I didn't want him knowing, some men don't like going home with women who have children. I had hoped you would go somewhere else for the night.”

“Where would I go?” Skwisgaar responded feeling irritated.

“Friends, I don't know.”

Friends. He didn't have friends, there were people that he talked to, but lately that was becoming a very small number.

“Be useful and make me something to eat, I'm starving, and try not to burn anything this time.”

Skwisgaar shoved his own plate away, stood, and went back to cooking.

He avoided fights with his mother, he always did. He feared that if he did stand up to her that she would leave and she wouldn't come back this time. As much as he hated her he didn't want to be left all alone, being alone was one of his worst fears.

One strange man in his mom's house turned to two then at some point that number went to three to five. He wouldn't know their names, just that they were her 'dates' and that more times than not they were not fond of finding out that their hot date had a child. The more masculine of her men got mean when they would drink too much. One man she had picked up from a local pub had decided to pick on Skwisgaar.

“Faggot get me another drink” The man ordered.

Skwisgaar balled his hands into fists at his sides. He wanted to tell him to fuck himself, he wanted to tell him to get out of his house and away from his mom.

“Hey did you hear me or not?”

“Yes I heard you”

“Then stop standing around like an idiot, get me a drink.”

Skwisgaar went into the kitchen, he grabbed a beer from the fridge and went back to the living room.

“Took you long enough” 

Skwisgaar tossed the can at the large man sitting on the couch, it hit against his chest. He felt his stomach drop when the large dark haired man got up off of the couch and marched over to him. Any anger that the blond boy had been feeling faded into fear as he craned his head back to look into the eyes of the large man standing before him.

“Did you just throw that fucking can at me?”

“No”

“Really, because I think you did.”

“Sorry, I'm sorry” He muttered

The man grabbed the ends of Skwisgaar's shoulder length hair and tugged at them.

“You look like a girl, I thought you told me you had a son not a daughter.” He joked

“Sometimes I'm not sure myself” Servetta responded

Skwisgaar felt sick.

“Get outta here, tired of seeing a little brat like you hanging around here.” He said shoving Skwisgaar hard enough that he fell back against the wall, his mother laughed.

Skwisgaar left the room going to his own and locking the door behind him.

Most of her men were like that; they would drink, call him names, and once in awhile they would push him around or hit him. His mother laughed if she was around to see it, if she wasn't then they didn't care to watch how hard they shoved him or how hard they smacked him across the face. At school he noticed more and more of his fellow class mates avoiding him. He heard more and more whispering about how his mom was a whore, and over time he began to get bullied. Apparently not all of the men his mother brought around were single.

When the day came that he came home to a clean house that he hadn't cleaned, his mother sober and dressed nicely he wondered what in hell had happened. She wouldn't tell him anything, she just told him to be nice, to brush his hair, and dress better. That evening a man came over, but this one was different. He dressed nicely, he didn't smell like cheap liquor; he had kind green eyes, and short brown hair. Skwisgaar couldn't remember his name, but he remembered the man being very nice. He wasn't like his mom's normal men; he enjoyed the fact that she had a son. He didn't call Skwisgaar names, hit him, or order him around like a servant. It was also the first time he had seen his mother go without drinking or being demeaning towards him. She smiled, laughed, and seemed so genuinely happy. If he had been smarter or more cynical back then he would have noticed she wasn't actually happy. Skwisgaar had been happy though, his mother was home now, and there was a well dressed man who he would happily call a father. He didn't fear coming home from school or have to lock his bedroom door at night to ensure nobody would come in to bully him or hurt him. 

He should know known that wouldn't last long. 

Three months later he came home from school to find his mother having sex in the living room with two men, two men from another pub like she usually did. He ran out of the house into the snow. Wolves had caught sight of his movement and chased him until he fell into a hole that never seemed to end. When he landed hard on the icy ground at the bottom he would never figure out how the hell his spine, ribs, and skull hadn't broken from the impact of his landing. He had survived with cuts, torn clothes, and bruises. In this crevice he found a skeleton, a statue of a God made of ice, and a beautiful electric guitar in its grasp. It felt like something made of dreams or made in the Iron Maiden songs he would listen to in his room at night. 

By the time that Skwisgaar got himself back home the men were gone and his mother was sitting on the couch with a cocktail in hand. 

“What in hell happened to you, look at your clothes. I just got those for you last week.”

Normally her comments would hurt, her lack of concern about her bruised and bloodied son would make his heart ache or fill him with hatred, but it didn't. The guitar he held in his hands filled him with electricity, he felt some odd excitement flowing through his veins. He smiled to himself and went off to his room not paying mind to his mother's comments. In his room with his door locked he played his guitar, he didn't play it very well, but he knew he could get lessons for it if he started taking money from his mother's purse. 

Every day he played his guitar; he played it to escape his mother's cruel comments, the cruel men that she brought home every other night, and to fight away the feeling of loneliness that his life brought him. He dreamed of mastering this instrument. His mother often told him he wasn't good at anything, he had no talent, or no use in this life, but he would prove her wrong. He would become the best at playing guitar, he would have a purpose, he would have a band, and be a big rock star. 

At sixteen years old he ran away from home. It wasn't a planned out or intelligent decision; he had literally nowhere to go, he had a band that he knew from the start wasn't going to go anywhere, but at least the bassist let him crash on his couch from time to time. For years he would go from crashing on the couches of people he met at shows, band mates, and on bad nights he would sleep on the streets. When he managed to make his way to the States he met a large black haired man at a show he had played, the man he later found out was named Nathan let him crash back at his apartment. Apparently him and two other guys were forming a death metal band, they needed a rhythm guitarist.


End file.
